


Will In Over-Plus

by Lomedet



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Epistolary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomedet/pseuds/Lomedet
Summary: Brotherhood of the traveling sonnets. Or, Silas and Dom have a quarrel, and their friends get involved.





	Will In Over-Plus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/gifts).



Jon,

I hope this finds you well, and that the nobs are keeping their disagreements behind closed doors instead of in the public rooms of Quex’s. ~~Have you seen Dom~~ Will his Lordship’s set be back in London for Christmas? I’ve no love for the day myself, but I know how the gentry like an excuse to feast to excess. It looks like I’ll be here longer than planned - I thought Vane’s books were a mess, but the stacks in here make his bookroom look like a canon library. Sorting through what I want to take for my shop, what belongs to the family, and what goes for kindling is going to take some time. Good thing I’m pretty sure there’s no one in the city besides Harry who will be missing me at end of year celebrations. If you see the lad, give him my regards. 

In all of the sorting and stacking, I found this, and it seemed perfect for you and Will. It’s not a Christmas present, but consider it my wish for the both of you to have a very happy New Year.

\- Silas

P.s I dare you to read 135 out loud to Quex. 

_135_  
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,  
And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;  
More than enough am I that vexed thee still,  
To thy sweet will making addition thus.  
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,  
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?  
Shall will in others seem right gracious,  
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?  
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,  
And in abundance addeth to his store;  
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will  
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.  
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;  
Think all but one, and me in that one Will. 

 

Foxy,

Would you work your magic on Silas’ fancy boy and get those two idiots back in the same city? It’s gotten to the point where Mason is sending me poetry, and neither Will nor I have the taste for it. If you’re not too busy with your own bit of rich, that is.   
Things are calm here, now that you and his lordship have gone gadabout. Mr. Frey comes to the club most days and sits off to the side, sipping gin and growling at any who come near. ~~Much like a rude and roughshod free-thinker we both know~~ He does what he wants, of course, but Will and I would appreciate it if he stopped scaring the other gentlemen. It’s hard to tell if he’s madder at Silas for not being here, or at the members for not being Silas. We’ve thought about offering him some relief ourselves, but without Silas here that seems like a bad idea. You’d think the two of them had never fought before, for how badly they’re taking this one.   
Will you be back for December? Will wants to know if you’ll be needing the rooms here, or if he can keep using them to store the extra gin he’s been stocking for Frey. 

-Jon

p.s. I’m sending the book along to you. Perhaps his lordship will enjoy it.

 

My lord,

I thought that my days of navigating the intimate intrigues of your friends were, if not over, then at least on hiatus for a while. Shakespeare and Quex have informed me that your childhood companion has taken to drink and, while I judge no man on his comforts, the proprietors of the club would greatly prefer it if he took his tears and his temper elsewhere.   
Your former bookman is still off wandering forests of books in the wilds of Yorkshire, and has indicated to Jon that he does not intend to return before the New Year. As Mr. Frey has previously indicated his strong desired that I ‘keep my fox’s snout out of his personal business’ I am turning this matter over to you. With this note you will find a volume of sonnets passed along to me by Shakespeare. As I was looking it over, 91 reminded me of you.

Your,  
Cyprian

__  
91  
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,  
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,  
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;  
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;  
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,  
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:  
But these particulars are not my measure,  
All these I better in one general best.  
Thy love is better than high birth to me,  
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,  
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;  
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:  
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take  
All this away, and me most wretched make 

 

Dom,  
 ~~What are you doing?~~ I’m coming back to the city, because ~~clearly you can’t manage your own affairs~~ my brother has asked me to take some business meetings for him. Happily, this means you and I will be able to spend time together when I am not occupied with the solicitors.   
I know that we are each in different places now than we were a year or so ago, but, my dear, it still pains me to know you are unhappy. If I had known it would cause such strife between you, I would never have connected Silas to the Broughtons. I simply thought that it was an excellent opportunity for him to stock his shop at exceedingly reasonable prices. How was I to know that you were about to levy upon them such steep fines for non-payment of taxes? I know that you and Mason have some sort of code of silence when it comes to your work and his...interests, but I strongly suggest you revisit it if it is going to lead to results like this. It appears that my former bookman is settling in for the winter in Yorkshire, not least because he does not believe he will find a warm welcome in the city. ~~What did you _say_ to him?~~

I will come back to the city, and we can talk about how to handle this mess.

Yours,   
Richard

p.s. I’m sending a volume of sonnets - perhaps a reminder of the poetry of love will move you from your stubborness.

 

Dear Silas,

I am sorry. I have spent the last weeks thinking of nothing but our last conversation, and now that the fire of my own self-righteousness has banked a little, I see how wrong I was to speak so, or to think so ill of you. You are one of the most honorable men of my acquaintance, and my life is greatly improved in so many ways by our connections. Please come home. 

Your,   
Dom

P.s. Perhaps Shakespeare’s words might serve to convince you, if mine alone cannot. 

_120_  
That you were once unkind befriends me now,  
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,  
Needs must I under my transgression bow,  
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.  
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,  
As I by yours, you've passed a hell of time;  
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken  
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.  
O! that our night of woe might have remembered  
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,  
And soon to you, as you to me, then tendered  
The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!  
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;  
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. 

Dom,

I will see you at the New Year. Ask Jon to make sure the private rooms at Quex’s are ready. Since it seems that we’re communicating in sonnets now, I have copied one below for you. 

-Silas

_130_  
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:  
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,  
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
And in some perfumes is there more delight  
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:  
I grant I never saw a goddess go,  
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,  
As any she belied with false compare. 


End file.
